


We Regret To Inform You

by kittydesade



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 23:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittydesade/pseuds/kittydesade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Frederic enjoys most parts of her job, but not this. Never the notifications, telling a person whose only crime was attaching themselves to a Warehouse staff member that their loved one wouldn't be coming home. She reflects on the losses in her own life as she tells a friend's family of his death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Regret To Inform You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fleurlb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurlb/gifts).



> Spoilers for episode 2x11 Buried

This was the part of the job that any cop, any soldier, anyone who had ever stood to defense or put themselves in danger for the sake of the greater good knew was coming someday. It was also the worst part of the job, to her mind. Yes, even worse than the Warehouse link and the dangers that came with it, or the hazards seemingly innocuous items presented. Or putting up with some of the Warehouse Agents.

Mrs Frederic sat in the car for several minutes staring at the house, knowing that the words simply weren't there. There were no words to make this better. The front garden was small but well-maintained, the lawn modest and trimmed. The house was brick, and large, modestly designed but for maximum room. Which made sense when one considered that Benedict Valda had had two children and a third on the way the last she'd heard, two years ago that was. Her childhood home hadn't been half so pleasant; Valda had made sure his children would be provided for when they were still only a dream in his and his wife's thoughts.

"Here we go," she muttered, hauling herself out of the car and up the front steps. "Christ, I hate these things."

Stephanie was chasing their second oldest around with a jacket when she opened the door, one-handed, on the way past. Then she saw who was at the door and stopped, straightening.

"Hello, Stephanie." Mrs. Frederic didn't smile. It wasn't a smiling sort of day.

The other woman wasn't smiling either, not anymore. "Mrs. Frederic," she nodded, pushing a couple blonde strands up behind her ear. The back of her hand was marked with flour. When Valda had first been made a regent he had invited her into their home, for what he called the best homemade bread in the state. She'd thought he was exaggerating at first.

"May I come in?" Not that it was necessary, anymore.

Stephanie folded her arms over her chest; deprived of their mother's attention, the second oldest and the oldest stopped playing and frowned over at her. The oldest's name was Luke. She didn't remember what they'd called the other two. "Yeah, sure," she said after a second, and stepped aside.

Mrs. Frederic came in and greeted the boys as best she could when she was only half sure of their names, moved a couple of Transformers and a stuffed animal so she could sit on the couch. A pink, fluffy stuffed rabbit.

"Ah-hawwo," the little girl said, waving with one hand while the other hand held a sippy cup. With apple juice, judging by the smell.

She forced a smile on her face. "Hello, there. What's your name?"

"Her name is Eileen," Stephanie said, coming up behind her daughter and steering her away by the shoulders. "Jeremiah, go wash your sister up and set the table for lunch."

And then they were alone in the room, with the loaded truth set between them whenever they chose to pull the trigger.

"Have you eaten yet?" Stephanie didn't smile.

Mrs. Frederic did, a little like a defense mechanism, baring her teeth and straightening her shoulders. "No, not yet."

She nodded, turning and telling her boy to set another place at the table. Mrs. Frederic rose to tell her she wasn't staying but found herself keeping silent. Meanwhile Stephanie fidgeted, as though she wanted to retreat back to the kitchen but didn't dare on the grounds of politeness or some such.

"How's ... work?" She knew about the Warehouse, of course. Valda would have told her at some point in their relationship, although he'd never told Mrs. Frederic when.

"It ... remains." Which was about as much as could be said for a job that had no discernible timetable, inventory, or requirements other than a sharp mind and a quick imagination. And a certain amount of physical ability as well.

Stephanie nodded. Her hands twisted around each other dry-washing off the spot of flour. Mrs. Frederic could imagine what the Valda household was like with all members present, scruffy, stained, and bouncing with joy. Valda had loved being a father, had been... come to think of it, that had been the first time she had ever seen him smile. And she had favored him with a story of her own daughters, the first time she'd told anyone that in many years. Since then, they'd exchanged pictures on cell phones every time they saw each other. Covertly, of course, to a degree. Less so in their more casual moments before and after meetings.

"How have you been, Stephanie?" she asked, since they were moving away from the topic. "How's the family?" She could see they were well but it gave her a chance to make herself relax, to make her voice gentle.

Now Stephanie wrapped her arms over her midsection, palms cupping elbows. "We're all right." Guarded response, protecting herself. She wouldn't cry, not in front of the children, but Mrs Frederic knew with the instinct she had for reading into people that made her one of the best Agent selectors in the current staff of the Warehouse.

"Good..." she nodded slightly. "Good, that's... good."

Her fingers tightened and dug in at her elbows. The gun went off. "He's dead, isn't he."

There was nothing else she could say to that. "I'm afraid he is. Stephanie... I'm sorry..." She watched the blonde woman's jaw clench, her shoulders tremble for a second as her nails dug small white marks into her arm. She wouldn't cry, she would fight herself not to cry until at the end of the day when the children were in bed. Valda always had said she was strong, a fighter.

It occurred to Mrs. Frederic that she would have made a hell of a Warehouse agent, in another time, with the proper training. She reminded her a little of herself as a young woman.

"He told me this day would come," she breathed. "He always said... I didn't believe him. I couldn't..."

Mrs. Frederic winced a little, remembering what that was like. "And that was what kept you going for as long as you did. He didn't know, he couldn't have known, not for certain. The future isn't written in stone."

Actually it was, or had been, in one of the aisles of Warehouse Five, but no one else needed to know that.

"But this is," she whispered. Almost accused, except it was throaty and hoarse and Stephanie closed her eyes. "This is. The future with my boys without their father, my little girl never..." A thick, wet sound rose up and choked off those last words.

Mrs. Frederic blinked and tilted her head slightly; watching her brought back a memory. A memory of an older man, a freedman, taking her up and sitting her on his knee and telling her very gravely that Momma wasn't coming home now, she couldn't come home again, but one day she would see her again, and think of all the things they'd have to talk about. Indeed, all the things they'd have to talk about. Somehow, she didn't think her mother had ever imagined this for her little girl.

"It'll be a long time," she told Stephanie, trying to recall her grandfather's words now. "It'll be a long time before he sees them again, but when he does, think of all the stories they'll have to tell him. And it's your job now to make sure they know him when they see him again, you have to make sure of that."

Her instincts were true, at least, which was good because that little speech could have proved embarrassing if Stephanie turned out to be a rationalist or an atheist. But no, the other woman looked at her with pale hazel eyes that were starting to redden. "Do you know that? Do you really know that?"

Mrs. Frederic thought back to all the artifacts she had known that allowed people to see, reflect, or touch the world of the dead. Enough that she needed more hands to count them, at least. Every user of every artifact had said something different, at least as far as she knew. She nodded. "I do. I truly do."

Stephanie covered a hand over her mouth and sniffed for a second, taking a breath and squaring her shoulders back. "Come and have lunch with us," she said abruptly, turning and heading towards the dining room. Two of the children were already in their seats, and the third was hopping up now.

Mrs. Frederic followed, not really hungry anymore. But the least she could do was make sure. Mrs. Valda wasn't alone when she told her children their father wouldn't be, couldn't be coming home again.


End file.
